Deadly Little Games (21 page)

O
NCE WE’RE BACK INSIDE
Adam’s car, he starts the ignition and a rap song blares out—so loud that I have to cover my ears.

“What’s the—” he says, fumbling with the dial to turn it down. “Did you change my radio station?”

At the same moment, an alarm clock goes off somewhere in the car. It’s a monotonous ping that bullets through my heart. Adam switches on the overhead light, and we both turn to see where the noise is coming from.

There’s something on the backseat. A dark blanket covers a mound of some sort.

“What’s that?” I ask him.

Adam shakes his head and reaches for the blanket. In one quick motion, he whisks it away.

A doll sits beneath it, wearing a ruffled white suit. It’s a clown doll with happy red lips, bright orange hair, and a stark white face. Marionette strings hang loose from its arms, legs, and mouth, and two bloodred tears run from its eyes. The doll holds a large manila envelope that reads,
LOOK AT ME
. In its other hand is a plastic knife with splotches of fake blood on the handle and blade. A sticky note on the clown’s belly reads,
PLAY ME
.

Meanwhile, the alarm clock continues to flash and chime, signaling that it’s five o’clock—even though it’s well past six.

Adam takes the clock and turns it off. “What the hell is all this?”

I lean over to pull the sticky note away, then lift up the clown’s shirt, wondering if there’s a button somewhere that makes the clown talk. Why else would the note say, play me?

“What are you doing?” Adam asks.

“Following directions,” I say, finally finding the button. I push it and a high-pitched giggly voice squeaks:
“See my strings? Well, I pull yours. I follow you. And unlock your doors. I’m watching you, and that’s no lie, and very soon, someone’s gonna die. Make no mistake, this game’s no fake, ’cause I’ll see you at our sad little wake. Our time will come, when the clock bells chime, and at that time you will be mine.”

“When the clock bells chime?” Adam asks, looking back at the alarm clock.

“But it’s already after five.”

“So, maybe we missed something?”

I reach for the manila envelope, noticing that someone’s drawn our favorite crossword puzzle on the back.

Adam takes it and reads off the clues. As usual, the answers are pretty obvious.

“EYE MADE COPIES,”
Adam says, reading the message aloud.

“Open it,” I say, already sensing the worst.

With fumbling fingers he tears the seal and peeks inside. His eyes snap shut at what he’s seen.

“What is it?” I ask. There’s an acid taste inside my mouth.

Adam pulls a sheet of paper from the envelope and turns it over so I can see. It’s a snapshot of Adam and me in his car last night. Kissing.

I
TELL ADAM TO GO
to the police, and then I bolt from his Bronco and race down the street. He tries to stop me, shouting out my name and making an effort to follow me in his car. But I cut across a grassy field, not really giving him much of a chance.

I just really need to see Ben right now.

I get to a bus stop about three minutes later.
“I made copies,”
I whisper, anxious to know if Ben’s already seen the photo. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called.

I take the Number 6 bus to the end of Ben’s street. His motorcycle is parked in the driveway. My heart pounds as I climb the front steps.

Ben comes to the door as soon as I ring the bell. “Hey,” he says, motioning me in. “I’ve been trying to call you, but your phone isn’t working.”

“Oh, right,” I say, remembering my uncharged cell.

“Are you okay?” He tries to look into my face.

But I can barely peek up from the rug.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Just hold me,” I say, collapsing against his chest, half hoping he can sense the truth on his own—that I won’t have to say the words.

Ben strokes my hair and holds me close. He smells like topsoil and roses—like the inside of his aunt’s flower shop. I breathe him in and glance over his shoulder.

And that’s when I see it.

A manila envelope, just like the one in Adam’s car.

It sits on the coffee table, along with a bunch of other mail. Ben’s name is scribbled across the front in thick black marker.

I take a step back, breaking our embrace.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, following my gaze.

I try to distract him by saying that I need some water, that I’m chilled, that I’d like him to get me a sweater from his room.

“Are you not feeling well?” he asks, seemingly unfazed by the envelope.

“No,” I say, knowing that I’d absolutely die if he saw the photo, especially before I had the opportunity to tell him about it.

“We need to talk,” I say. “But not here. Can we go somewhere…on your bike?”

“Sure,” he says, then heads into the family room to get his jacket. Meanwhile, I grab the envelope from the table and hurry to stuff it inside the waistband of my pants.

I start to zip my jacket over it, but the envelope falls out when I take a step.

I pick it up and cram it inside the back of my pants.

Ben catches me.

He stands in the kitchen doorway with a bottle of water in his hand. “You said you were thirsty.”

My head starts spinning and nerves collide in my chest. I truly feel like I’m going to be sick.

“What’s that?” he asks.

I half shrug and take the envelope out. Ben comes and hands me the water bottle. He tries to pry the envelope from my grip, finally spotting his name written across it.

Not knowing what else to do, I keep a firm hold on the edge of the envelope.

“What are you doing?” His brow is furrowed, as if he doesn’t quite get why I’m acting so weird—as if he thinks that maybe I’m confused.

I try to rip the envelope out of his hand completely, but it’s as if he already senses something from it. His grip tightens, and he yanks it away, accidentally cutting my hand on the edge. Blood seeps from my palm.

“Ben, no,” I say, ignoring the cut. “Let’s just go somewhere to talk.”

Ben shakes his head and starts to tear the envelope open.

“No!” I shriek, lunging for it again. I grasp at air as he turns from me. And takes the photo out.

“I’m sorry!” I shout. Tears stream down my cheeks. “Please hear me out!”

Ben stumbles backward at what he sees. He runs his fingers over the date printed in the corner. “Yesterday,” he whispers. “This happened yesterday.”

“Please,” I repeat. My chest heaves as I gasp for breath.

“Just go,” he says, raising his voice.

“I can’t,” I say. “Not until you talk to me, until you hear what I have to say.”

Ben grabs his keys and heads for the door, pulling away when I try to hold him back. He hops on his bike and takes off down the street, leaving me standing on the front steps.

“No!” I shout. My voice fills with more tears. I collapse to the ground, as if I’ve been stabbed in the gut.

A few moments later, the sky opens up. Freezing rain pours down over me, soaking my skin, making it feel like every inch of me is crying.

I
REMAIN ON BEN’S STEPS
, figuring he’ll come back—that since he’s on his bike, he’ll be anxious to seek shelter, change out of his wet clothes, get off the slick streets.

But he doesn’t come home.

After about an hour of waiting, I go to the phone booth at the end of the street, ready to call Kimmie. But then I remember her plans for tonight—the scheme to set up her parents at the restaurant. Wes is busy, too—out on a date with Tiffany.

Not knowing where else to go and unable to face my parents’ inquisitive stares, I give them a quick call, telling them I’m with Wes. And then I head to Knead, where I know I can be alone. It’s Saturday night, and Spencer usually leaves after the four o’clock wheel class.

I push my key into the lock and flick on the studio lights.

But Spencer is here, after all. He stands at the back, just outside his office. “What happened?” he asks.

My eyes burn from the pelting rain and the salt of my tears. “It’s raining,” I say, as if it weren’t completely obvious.

“And so you decided to lay out in it?”

“Not exactly,” I whisper, stifling a cough. Water drips down the sides of my face.

“What happened?” he asks, peeling off his sweatshirt. He comes and wraps it around me, and then looks into my face.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to distract him from how broken I must look.

“I could ask you the same.”

Rain drips from the ends of my hair, landing on the front of his T-shirt. I move to one of the worktables, trying to be tough—to act like I’m just here to sculpt.

“You’re soaking wet,” Spencer says. “Let me get you some dry clothes. I think I have an old pair of jeans in my office.”

“Thanks, but I have my own clothes.” I head for the coatroom downstairs, where I keep an extra pair of sweats and sneakers for glazing disasters. I wrench the rain-soaked clothes from my body and wring them out in the sink, feeling my skin turn to gooseflesh. Still, there’s a numbness inside me. Because nothing could hurt as much as seeing Ben’s face when he opened that envelope.

And knowing how much I hurt him.

I change into dry clothes, including Spencer’s sweatshirt, and remain in the bathroom for way longer than I should. Spencer calls out to me at least three times, asking if I’m okay, but I don’t have the words to answer.

Finally, he knocks on the door, prompting me to pick myself up off the concrete floor and make my way back upstairs.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

“Not now,” I say, pushing past him into the studio area. I try taking the twist tie off a bag of clay; the cut on my hand stings.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” he persists.

I shake my head, still fumbling with the twist tie, doing my best to stay in control, to make things normal, despite how truly abnormal everything feels.

Spencer can see it, too. He pulls the bag of clay from me, forcing me to look at him. “What happened?” he asks again.

“I screwed up,” I whisper, allowing him to wrap his arms around me.

He calls Svetlana to tell her he’s going to be late for their date tonight, and then he sits me down in his office, bandages my hand, and assures me that everything will work out.

I end up telling him about what happened between Adam and me: the kiss, and how someone must have been spying on us, because they sent a photo of said kiss to Ben.

“Who would spy on you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, thinking about Melissa. “I mean, there’s this girl who’s been majorly crushing on Adam—”

“Ever think it might’ve been Ben himself?”

“Now you sound like Adam.”

“It’s possible,” he says, sitting beside me on the couch. His straggly dark hair is almost as long as mine now. “At the very least, it’s definitely someone who wants to piss you off.”

“And break Ben and me up.”

“Or break you and Adam up,” he suggests.

“Even though we’re not together.”

“Obviously, this person doesn’t believe that,” he says, tucking a strand of my wet hair behind my ear. “And how about you? Do you believe it?”

I swallow hard, taken aback by the question, because up until now I’ve been so worried about everything else—about what Ben might be feeling, about what Ben isn’t telling me, what Adam’s intentions are, and whether or not I’m doing everything right—that I haven’t really asked myself what it is that
I
’
m
feeling.

Spencer places his hand on mine in an effort to soothe me. His arms are cut up from all his work with various metals—all the chiseling and carving he does. “You’ll figure things out. You’re an artist, after all. You need to experience life with all its wonders and agonies if you want to produce anything meaningful. Suffering makes you stronger, right?”

“I guess,” I say, forcing a tiny smile.

“And now you should go sculpt something really
great
.”

I let out a sigh, knowing he’s right.

While Spencer gathers his stuff to leave, I manage to get the tie off the bag of clay and wire off a nice thick slab. I wedge out my clay, despite my bandage, eager to try to avoid my Ben thoughts with clues concerning the crossword puzzles and messages. I close my eyes and the image of the knife from my aunt’s painting pops into my head. And so I sculpt it, adding Ben’s initials—B.C.—to the surface of the knife’s blade without thinking.

I open my eyes, suddenly realizing what I’ve done, knowing that I have to get him out of my head if I want to remain focused and figure things out once and for all. I wipe my hands on an apron and grab the studio phone to call Adam.

“Hey,” he says, picking up right away. “I was worried about you.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I’m actually on my way down to the station in a bit. I thought it’d be easier to show them everything.”

“Call me as soon as you get back. I’ll be at Knead for a while.”

“I will,” he says. “And I’m sorry again. About everything.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, deciding not to tell him what happened with Ben.

We hang up, even though I can tell he wants to talk some more. I close my eyes again, trying to take Spencer’s and Wes’s advice to heart, to remind myself that I
am
human, that I’m bound to make mistakes, and that what’s important is that I learn from them.

I just hope Ben feels the same.